You Means Us
by Paikea
Summary: Movieverse. The hospital scene, from Mary Morstan's perspective, then from Sherlock Holmes'. Can be read as slash, if you're that way inclined, or simply as bromance. Non-explicit.


_**Mary**_

I'll confess, I didn't know it was Holmes till he faced me. The accent was excellent, and nothing like his own voice. It twisted the knife a little when I realised he had been with my darling John while I had been waiting to be allowed to see him. This man, who my John was so attached to, who seemed to dislike me, the Doctor's future wife, merely on principle, who was, more directly than indirectly, responsible for John's injuries, and who was, most pertinently at this moment, a wanted man, had walked into the veterans' hospital as bold as brass and administered the morphine to my John himself. His sense of ownership, of entitlement, was infuriating. Why should he be here? Did he think John desired his presence at time when he was hurt and vulnerable? I gritted my teeth. Already, John was breathing easier. _I_ knew it was merely the drug, but from the self-satisfied set of Holmes' shoulders, I imagined he felt, megalomaniac that John assured me he was, that it had something to do with his presence too.

I took a breath, collected myself, and hurried after the man, as he began to exit the infirmary. I swallowed down my anger, too. It would serve no purpose but to render me incoherent. I knew I might have lost a battle, in that John had, despite all his protestations about no longer _wishing_ to be involved in his former colleague's work, followed him to that dockside warehouse, but I knew that, ultimately, John was and would be mine. My husband, _my_ constant companion, my roommate and bedfellow. And the fact that his latest involvement with Mr Sherlock Holmes had resulted in such serious injury made me feel vindicated in helping John loosen the hold the man had over him.

But I would be careful here. I would not give Holmes ammunition, some further defect in my character that he could hurl in John's face. I wouldn't let him see my anger. I would not have him tell John of my shrewish behaviour later. John would likely excuse my upbraiding his friend, though, I knew, John would not blame Holmes in any way for what occurred. I also knew that John would privately think me irrational. No, better that Holmes could say nothing.

Therefore I turned my voice as sweet as I could, though it almost choked me to do so, and assured Mr Holmes that he was not responsible.

"I know you care for him as much as I do," I told him. _Care for my darling as I do? I have never endangered his life. _

What Holmes was, was both obsessive and possessive. I'd seen it in the way he looked at John at that abominable dinner. My heart had sunk, and I'd known immediately that I had a problem on my hands. There was a covetousness about him when it came to John. I'm sure he felt, and feels, that I am attempting to take away from him something highly valuable and intrinsically his.

However, in matters of the heart I was thoroughly confidant that my sex and beauty could trump any scheme of the great Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I forced a smile that I knew reached nowhere near my eyes, and layed it on a little thicker. "John would say it was worth the wounds."

From the uncomfortable way he cleared his throat and shot me a sideways look, I knew he didn't mistake my little performance for sincerity. No matter. As he hurried off, I called after him that he must solve the case, whatever it took. _With any luck, _I thought, _it takes enough to remove my John from your influence entirely and permanently. _At that thought I could genuinely smile.

_**Holmes**_

I wasn't sane until I saw him. Oh, I was walking and talking and deducing. Such things I can do under the influence of cocaine, and, so I found, while experiencing the most heightened state of panic I have yet felt.

I first satisfied myself as to the nature of the shrapnel wounds in his back, neck and shoulder. Ugly, with a possible chance of infection, but none very deep.

He flinched under my touch, but made not a sound. His eyes opened to half-mast and regarded me for a moment. He was still groggy and dazed from the explosion, and I rather think he did not penetrate my disguise. His eyes dropped closed again and his face tightened from pain. I fetched the needle and morphine, but he attempted to stop me from injecting him, grabbing at my wrist and muttering something about "damn brain-rotting drugs."

I felt the smile cross my face. Ever the puritan. Gently, I disengaged his hand from my arm, finding him as weak as a kitten. I pressed his wrist down on the bed beside him, and carefully inserted the needle into the crook of his elbow. I gave him a rather strong dose for I wanted him to sleep through the worst of the pain, which would come soon enough, when they began pulling the shards of metal and brick out of him.

His breathing evened out, his face relaxing into unconsciousness. It was no longer strictly necessary for me to continue to hold his wrist down, but it was a moment or two before I could let go. I would have liked to remain there for a little while longer, but I had, for some minutes, been aware of a female presence in the room behind me. The light tread and rustle of skirts made the sex of the intruder obvious. The fact that I smelt perfume informed me that it was not a nurse. That the perfume smelt rather cheap, such as a governess could afford, spoke of Miss Morstan and not Irene Adler.

I gave her a cursory glance as I moved round the bed, and saw firstly that she had not yet recognised me, and secondly that all her attention was riveted upon the good Doctor. There was a hungry look upon her face, such as I expect I myself have at times worn when regarding John Watson.

Watson is, to the extent of my experience, the most flawless representation of an Englishman in existence. I believe it to be a combination of strength, humour, physical courage, a warm temper and gentlemanly manners.

I cannot be in his presence without having the urge to put a hand on him.

The idea that Miss Morstan might take him from me, that such a thing was even possible, pained me extraordinarily. Until recently, I believed that there were two people on earth who could elicit an emotional response from me, and I had thought that they held fairly equal sway within me.

But when I had dragged Irene out from behind that pillar I found myself quite unable to flee with her in the opposite direction, the action that would have been most likely to preserve her life. Instead, I found myself running back towards the blast, dragging her with me for no other reason than she was temporarily forgotten.

My heart had been in my teeth.

And while some cold and calculating part of my mind had estimated that the chance of _him_ being alive at that point was none too likely, the rest of my mind refused to register it. I had never lost anything as precious as John Watson.

By the time I entered the infirmary and laid a hand on his shoulder, I knew. Irene meant much less than I had previously thought. My attachment to her stemmed from her being a more worthwhile adversary than most, at the heart of the matter was little more than a case of piquant on my part, which had turned to mild obsession.

Watson, I loved. A somewhat frustrating admission to make, for a man who had once claimed he would never love, for love clouded reason.

Feeling Miss Morstan's eyes on me now, I turned and crossed back to the bed. I'd be damned if she'd drive me out without another look at him.

"The surgeon will be here soon," I told her. "He should be able to rest now."

I knew in that moment that she had seen who I was. Her eyes narrowed, and a hateful look came into them. I brushed her aside. I had not the time or the patience for her. I wished, suddenly and resolutely, that somebody would murder her for the ugly brooch she wore, on her way home.

Lord Blackwood might pose an imminent threat to the country, but what interest could the country hold for me, with no Watson to marvel over my methods of solving its individual little problems? What interest could the days hold, with no Watson growling at me over the state of my linen, casting a worried eye over me and remonstrating with me for drinking things meant for cleaning purposes, reading the agony column to me, or sleeping on the couch, his troublesome leg stretched out, while I sat and observed his face and speculated on the subjects of his dreams.

The answer was, of course, none. I have never born a woman so much ill-will as I bore Miss Morstan in that moment.

She, however, appeared to be playing a little game of her own. For she followed me, and let me know that she knew my identity, for the seeming purpose of assuring me Watson's injuries were not my fault, and attempting to establish some kind of fellow-feeling between us through our mutual attachment to him.

She meant not a word of it, however. I saw in her eyes that if she could accomplish my end with no detriment to herself, she would gladly do so.

I knew then that there was no possible way that we could co-exist. I resolved to rid myself of her… somehow. And by myself, I of course meant Watson and myself.

With this thought, I returned to Baker St to unpack his suitcases, and then to employ a little pharmaceutical assistance in contemplating our case.


End file.
